


Corvo

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU alternate meeting, Crowlock, Crows, Friendship, Gen, Injury, Magic, Magical Realism, Sherlock pissed off a goddess, questing we will go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abandoned - but I had fun with it anyhow. Sherlock has been transformed into a crow as the result of an unfortunate encounter with the Celtic goddess of battlefields. He saves John at her behest, but the question is - can John save Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea and first line come from a quote from Justin Cronin, "Never a good sign, he thought, when the crows show up."

It was never a good sign when the crows showed up. Carrion eaters, they had an unerring instinct for the dead and dying strewn across the hot sand of the Afghani desert. John and his medical team flew in from the east to the coordinates they had been given. He could see the crows coming in from the west, flying low against the brilliant orange and red of the setting sun. 

A twelve man team from the Counter-IED Task Force had been ambushed while trying to clear IEDs planted on Highway One near the Helmand River. Two medivac helicopters carried John's team, based at the military facility at Camp Bastion, toward the scene. 

“There,” the pilot said. John looked down. He saw men on the ground to the side of the highway. None of them seemed to be moving. “Take us down,” he said. 

The crows had gotten there first. They rested on the men’s faces. They seemed to like the eyes best. God, how he hated the crows. He saw movement, heard groaning. Some living then. He ran and knelt beside the first figure he saw moving. 

“Easy,” he said, looking into dazed brown eyes. He looked at the chest, what he could see around the blood. He could read the name tag. “Corporal Bradley, we’ll get you patched up and out of here.” That’s what he usually said, or some version of it. Hope was a powerful thing. 

Bradley coughed and reached a hand up to grab John’s arm. 

“Snipers,” he whispered. 

John stood to try to warn his team. Foolish. Strange that he didn’t feel any pain. Just a blow to his shoulder, but he knew what it was. He could see the blood spurt from an artery. Likely the sub-clavian. Not good. 

“Please, God, let me live,” he prayed as he fell. Ironic, since he didn’t really believe in God, but it seemed appropriate. He was needed here. Bradley at least needed him. “They need me,” he mumbled into the sand. But he was suddenly so tired. He would rest for a minute. Just for a minute. He closed his eyes. 

He felt a sharp tap on his forehead. Again on the side of his temple. What? He tried to lift his head from the hot sand, but he was so tired. Another sharp tap. He opened one eye, the one not pressed into the sand. A crow stood beside his head. Shiny black head cocked, ash-grey breast feathers, beady black eyes. Wicked black beak. John slammed his eye shut. He wasn’t carrion yet, and the damned thing must have been going for his eyes. 

“Open your eyes, you idiot,” he heard. “I’m not going to eat them.” 

His eyes flew open. He didn’t see a soul. He tried to move his head again, tried to raise up to see whose voice it was. 

“Don’t be tedious,” the bird said. “There’s nobody alive here except you and me. And, technically, you were dead as well a moment ago.” 

“I’m hallucinating,” he muttered. “You’re a crow.” 

“Well, I am _now_ ,” the bird said. Its beak was moving. Its shiny eyes looked remarkably intelligent. It…rolled…its eyes as it…spoke. It looked impatient. 

John thought for a moment. He was undoubtedly hallucinating, undoubtedly bleeding out, but there was actually nothing he could do about it. Even if he had believed in the afterlife, which he sort of didn’t, he wouldn’t have expected it to feature talking crows. He had nothing better to do, it seemed, so he’d go along with it. 

“If you’re a crow _now_ , what were you before?” 

“Human. That bitch Morrighan cursed me. I have to serve her for two centuries or until…. Well, that’s irrelevant.” 

“Who’s she?” John felt quite relaxed for someone who’d been shot. No pain. 

“The Celtic goddess of war. She has dominion over battlefields, and I’ve become her errand boy. Or bird. What is relevant is that she took a liking to you, so you’ll live to fight another day if the idiots in the helicopter I passed on the way in ever get here. Ah, finally.” 

John heard the rotors just then. 

“What were you doing poking at me if you weren’t trying to eat my eyes?” John had to admit he was curious. 

“Magic,” the crow said in a disgusted tone. “Ironic, since my not believing in it was part of what got me into this situation in the first place. Now I'm doing magic. Ridiculous. Well, you’re the only lucky one today, so I’m off.” It hopped back and ruffled sleek black wings, revealing more of its shiny ash-grey body. 

“Wait,” John said. “Can't you stay with me for a bit? Keep me company until the chopper gets here at least? What’s your name?” Surely, John thought hazily, if it could talk it must have a name. 

It narrowed its eyes. “Sentiment? I can’t stay. She’s calling me back. The hag. I’m a _corvus cornix_ , a hooded crow, genus _Corvus_ , family _Corvidae_.” 

“No, your human name.” 

“Oh,” the bird sounded surprised. “None of the others have ever asked me that. Sherlock. Not that we’re ever likely to meet again, but you can call me Sherlock.” 

“Watson,” John said. “Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You can call me John.” 

“I’m not exactly in a position to make friends,” the bird said. Then it added, a bit grudgingly, “John.” Then it was gone in a blur of black and grey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to London, tries to decide if life is worth living, and gets some unexpected help.

John was almost out of money. He was almost out of hope. He couldn’t afford London on his pension, and he was damned if he would go live with Harry in Bedford Park. To her credit, she had offered. The idea of sleeping in her immaculate guest room and watching her drink herself into oblivion every night held little appeal. 

The army didn’t want him anymore, and no A&E in central London seemed to want an ex-army doctor with a limp and an intermittent tremor in one of his hands. He could hardly blame them. This afternoon marked his third interview, this one at St. Bartholomew’s. Dr. Choudry looked at him with regret and pity and said things about suitability and the demands and the fast pace of an inner-city A&E. 

John stood while he was still talking and limped out of the man’s office, out of the building, and across the park. The galling thing was that Choudry was probably right. What now? Try to find locum work somewhere? He could just picture it, the days of rheumatism and runny noses, filling out forms. Hell. 

“John! John Watson?” 

John turned. No-one in London knew him anymore. 

A man in a rumpled trench-coat stood, held out his hand and smiled. “Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” 

Good god, John thought. Mike had gotten fat. To be fair, however, he had gotten shot. Nothing ever stayed the same. They got coffee, sat on a park bench in the afternoon sun, and caught up. John told him about his failed interview at Bart’s. 

“I’m teaching there,” Mike said. 

John laughed, the first time he had laughed in days. 

“Yeah,” Mike grinned. “I was better at drinking than studying back in the day. But I married, settled down, had two little girls. So now I teach bright young things. God, I hate them. They don’t know how good they’ve got it, but neither did we, did we?” 

“No,” John replied, thinking of the easy camaraderie of staying up all night swotting or drinking. That’s one thing he missed about the army come to think of it, the friendships. He felt so alone. 

“Look,” Mike said, “Choudry’s a decent sort. Let me talk to him.” 

“Thanks, but he was right, and we both know it.” John held out a shaking hand and gestured to the cane resting beside his leg. “I’m not fit for it. I was just having trouble letting go of the hope.” 

They sat in silence, sipping their coffee for a long moment. 

“So, what now?” 

“Don’t know. Find some locum work up north maybe. Emigrate to Australia?” John meant the last as a joke, but it didn’t sound funny even to his own ears. What was left to him in England, after all? 

“Why not stay in London and find some locum work?” 

“Even if I could find a practice to take me, it wouldn’t pay enough to afford London.” 

“Can’t imagine you anywhere but London. That’s not the John Watson I know.” 

“I’m not…,” John couldn’t even finish the sentence. That John Watson died in Afghanistan. Maybe it was better just to finish the job and be done with it. He thought about the illegal gun hidden beneath the mattress in the God-awful bedsit that was all he could afford. 

“Harry can’t help?” 

“She offered. I can’t live with my sister. We’d kill each other within a week.” 

“Flat share?” Mike asked. 

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” John couldn’t imagine living with a stranger. He could imagine the curiosity, the pity. 

He struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “Anyway, good to see you, Mike.” 

Stamford’s naturally cheerful face looked anything but. His brow furrowed. He shook his head and refused to take John’s hand. He was clearly worried, which depressed John even further. He was nothing but a burden, even to Mike. 

Then Stamford’s face cleared. “I’ve got it! I know a place, and you wouldn’t have to share with anyone. I’ll bet she’d let you stay there for a while, until you get on your feet. She’d probably like the company.” 

“She who? What are you talking about?” 

“Mrs. Hudson. What you said made me think of it. ‘Who’d want me for a flatmate?’ He said the same thing to me not two weeks before he disappeared. He was between cases and said something that made me think he was worried about making ends meet. I asked if he'd thought about getting somebody to share the rent. And that's what he said. 'Don't be ridiculous. Who'd want me for a flatmate?' But it's perfect. Flat’s empty, and she's not trying to rent it.” 

John felt disoriented, as if he’d stepped into another country where he didn’t quite know the language. His leg was on fire. He leaned more heavily on the cane. 

“Look, Mike, I’d better be getting on. Good to see you.” 

“Nope,” Mike said, “You’re going to sit down and listen. You need a place to stay until you get sorted. I know a place. Get down off your high horse and listen for a minute.” 

John sighed. He sat. Mike was just trying to help. He’d been so damned prickly since he came back to England that he was in danger of offending an old friend who just wanted to help. 

“Where’s this flat?” 

“Baker Street.” 

“Jesus, Mike, I can’t afford…” 

“Just listen. It’s an unusual situation. The flat’s empty now, but a friend… well, I say friend… a guy I knew lived there. He was a consulting detective. Went off to the west of Ireland on a case, almost a year ago now, and never came back.” 

“Dead?” 

“No-one knows. They never found a body. He was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I don’t know what happened, but I’m not the only one who thinks he may still come back, get out of whatever he got himself into and just show up one day. That’s what Mrs. Hudson thinks anyway. I went to his flat to check on him when he hadn’t turned up at Bart’s in a month or so. He used to hang out in the labs and the mortuary, doing experiments, asking for body parts. We were probably as friendly as he ever got with anybody. Anyway, he wasn’t there. Ended up talking to his landlady instead.” 

“He sounds like a piece of work,” John said. 

“He was indeed. Like nobody you’ve ever met before. Anyway, Mrs. Hudson said she didn’t know what had happened. The police had been in, his brother as well. They never told her anything. But she told me she wouldn’t rent out his flat until after his funeral if there ever was one. She believed in him, you see. Thought he’d be back someday. So let’s meet up there and see if she’ll let you stay at Sherlock’s place until you get on your feet.” 

The breath caught in John’s chest. Sherlock. _Sherlock._ The damned bird. When he woke up in hospital back in Kandahar he had thought it was all a hallucination. But he had never heard the name Sherlock before or since he had been bleeding out in the sand. Until now. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Sherlock?” John tried to keep his voice steady. “Unusual name.” 

“Yeah, unusual guy. Sherlock Holmes. Wish you could have met him. Hell, maybe you will someday. Anyway, I’ll call Mrs. Hudson, see what she has to say. I got the feeling she was lonely. You’re a war hero. Why wouldn’t she want the company and to do a good deed into the bargain, at least until Sherlock shows up again?” Mike took out a pocket diary, tore out a page, and started scribbling. 

“Here’s my number. The address of the flat is 221B Baker Street. Meet me there at 7:00 and we’ll talk to Mrs. Hudson.” 

John took the scrap of paper Mike was holding out. He stood and held out his hand. “Thanks for trying to help, Mike.” He didn’t say that the whole think sounded absolutely insane. He turned to leave. 

“You’re meeting me, right?” Mike asked. 

John didn’t reply, just limped off down the path. The sun was setting and the autumn air was getting colder. He shivered. He was so very tired. Why would a woman he didn’t know let him stay in what was undoubtedly an expensive flat for little or no money that she wasn’t renting out because she was waiting for a detective who had disappeared to return. What was even more surreal was that she was right. Sherlock had just been turned into a crow. Which was, of course, impossible. So not only was John physically unfit, but he was mentally unstable as well. He thought about the gun waiting back in the bedsit. One well-placed shot and he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. 

“Don’t do it.” 

He whirled around. Perched on the back of a bench, in the deepening shadow, was a crow. 

“You are not losing your mind, John. Suicide is a dramatic but unnecessary solution to what you perceive as your problems.” 

He looked all around him. There was no-one on any of the paths. Just him and the crow. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Don’t be an idiot. How many talking crows do you know? Speaking of idiots, Mike Stamford isn’t totally idiotic. He actually managed to have a good idea. My flat is empty for the time being. I haven’t been able to get inside. Only people who've died or come very close to it can hear me, so I can’t even tell Mrs. Hudson to leave a sodding window open. Besides, the Morrigan keeps me running errands for her queenliness most of the time, so we won’t get in each other’s way. It’s perfect. You’ll like Mrs. Hudson. She’ll like you.” 

“Why are you even _here_?” 

“You were thinking about using the gun. The Morrigan keeps an eye on her favorites. She’s apparently interested in your welfare.” The crow flicked his wings, then cocked his head. 

“And, John, when you move in, leave a bloody window open.” 

The crow lifted off the bench and sailed off gracefully westward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leans more about the Morrigan and the reason Sherlock was cursed.

“I thought crows were omnivorous,” John said. 

“They are.” Then, after a long pause, “ _We_ are.” 

John looked across the breakfast table. He could have sworn that the crow’s ash-grey breast heaved in a tiny sigh. The bright, black eyes glared at him, daring him to say the wrong thing. 

“Well, for something… someone, sorry, _someone_ that’s omnivorous, you seem to eat bloody little. Come on, Sherlock, eat _something_. Want some of my eggs?” 

Sherlock turned his head away and said something soft, low, scratchy. John couldn’t make it out. 

“What?” 

The black head turned back toward him. 

“I’ll. Have. An. Egg. Not those.” 

John got up, went to the fridge, and got one brown egg out of the carton. He reached into the cabinet for a small bowl, trying not to think about his own eggs, rapidly cooling on the counter. 

“No!” 

John turned. 

“Raw. Don’t crack the shell. That’s part of the….” 

Man and bird looked at each other across the expanse of the kitchen table. Sherlock didn’t finish the sentence. 

“Fun?” John finally asked. 

“ _Experience_.” Sherlock raised himself to his full height, lifting his bill. He managed to make his 34 centimeters or so look impressive. John tried not to smile as he set the egg in its little bowl (to keep it from rolling away) down in front of Sherlock. The bird brought its glossy black beak down onto the egg, cracked it neatly, and began to explore the liquid interior. Soon Sherlock’s beak was yellow. 

They ate their respective eggs in companionable silence for a while. Sherlock had been right. As John was learning, Sherlock was almost always right. Mrs. Hudson welcomed him like a long-lost son, and he was already becoming fond of her. They both, it seemed, were lonely. He settled in to the upstairs bedroom and always left the window into Sherlock’s downstairs bedroom open for him. He had seen quite a bit of the bird since he moved in. 

He finally accepted that he was living with a consulting detective who happened to have been turned into a crow. It sounded impossible, but enough time had passed that he knew he wasn’t insane. Everything, except the enchanted crow, was normal. As Sherlock had told him, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. He also told John not to use the word “enchanted.” He preferred cursed or buggered. John saw his point. Enchanted sounded like one of those harmless Disney movies. 

They had been flat-mates, of a sort, for three days. He supposed things were quiet on the servant-of-Morrigan front since Sherlock hadn’t spent much time out of the flat. In those three days, John discovered that Sherlock liked to sip tea – two sugars, splash of milk – out of a teacup. He liked to watch television, but he was picky about the shows and quite acerbic in his comments. No nature shows, for instance. He liked chat shows and court-room reality shows and was amazing about deducing things about the participants. He could use the internet if John opened and powered up his laptop, painstakingly typing out search terms with his beak. John waited, hoping for Sherlock’s story, but it hadn’t been forthcoming. He would have to ask. 

“So, what did you do? The curse, I mean.” 

Sherlock hopped from the table and perched on the back of a kitchen chair. He cocked his head. 

“If I tell you, will you get a _Daily Mirror_ on your way home? And the _Sun_? And spread them out so I can read them tonight?” 

John didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had intended to do that anyway. 

“How can you read?” John asked. 

“I don’t _know_. I don’t know how any of this is possible. I remember everything. I can think just as well as I ever did. And I’m _bored_. Bored, bored. **Bored**.” 

The last “bored” was quite raucous, and it was followed with an inarticulate, frustrated sound, something like “kraaa.” 

Sherlock’s breast heaved again. Another small sigh, John supposed. He almost reached out to run his fingers down the shiny grey breast-feathers in comfort, but he stopped himself. He didn’t think Sherlock would appreciate sympathy. 

“I’ll get you whatever you want, Sherlock. And you don’t have to tell me anything. I’m sorry I asked. Sorry this happened to you.” Silence fell for a long moment. Then, the small, rough voice. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” said John. 

Sherlock dipped his head and polished his beak on the feathers under one wing. Then he fluffed those feathers up in a meditative way. 

“I don’t mind telling you,” he said at last. “I went to Ireland on a case for an old woman who lived in a manor house on Dursey Island, near Glengarriff. She had acres of land and lots of cattle. Someone was gutting her cows and leaving them in the fields. She said she was afraid. Ha!” 

“Ha?” 

“Ha,” the bird said. “It was a ruse. The bitch lured me up there. Tried to seduce me. Again.” 

“What, the old woman? Why? Again? What do you mean, ‘again’?” 

“Because I’d turned her down once before. She’s not used to being turned down. She lured me away from London. Decided to have another go.” 

“That’s… disturbing. So an old lady tried…. Jesus, Sherlock.” 

“Not in that form, John. The Morrigan is a triple goddess. I saved her sodding life to boot. I should have let the fundamentalists in Karachi cut her head off, although I suppose she would have killed them all herself before it came to that. She just wanted to see if I’d come for her. And I fell for it, John. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft, I’d never have met her. Bloody Mycroft.” 

John’s head was spinning. Karachi? Ireland? Head cutting? Seductive old ladies? He seized on the last thing. 

“Who’s Mycroft?” 

“My brother. She was trying to blackmail the queen. Not supposed to say that. Forget I said that.” 

“The queen?” 

“Forget that part. Irene Adler had compromising photos of a member of the royal family. Mycroft’s a friend, so he called me in to get them back. That’s where it started. Do you really want to hear this?” 

“God, yes,” said John. “Who is Irene Adler? The old lady?” 

“In a way. One aspect of the Morrigan. Three sisters, so to speak, but one Goddess. A trinity. One goddess, three persons. Didn’t you learn any theology at school?” 

“No, I bloody didn’t. Where did _you_ go to school?” 

“Harrow, Winchester, Magdalen.” 

“Oh,” said John. “I went to schools in council estates. Moved from foster home to foster home. So cut me some slack here.” 

Sherlock blinked and then ducked his black head for a moment. John supposed that was as near as he would get to an apology. 

“Yes, Sherlock. I want to hear about it.” 

The bird lifted its head. “Better make tea then. This could take a while.” 

John obediently rose and began to fill the kettle with water. Behind him, Sherlock spoke over the sound of the running water. 

“Badb Catha, Nemain, Macha. They’re the three sisters. They are the Morrigan. The old lady was Badb Catha, the Battle Raven. I haven’t met Nemain yet. But, God help me, the Macha was Irene Adler.” 

“And she was blackmailing the royal family?” John turned the gas up under the kettle and turned around. 

“The Macha is all about erotic power. She was plying her trade out of a very expensive house in Belgravia.” 

“That trade being blackmail?” 

“Oh, John. Blackmail just amused her and gave her insurance against interference. There are many names for what she does down through the centuries. In her incarnation as Irene Adler, she preferred the term dominatrix.” 

“Jesus,” said John. 

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “Kettle’s boiled. Last time you let the tea steep too long. Two and a half minutes. No more.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored, Henry Knight is (temporarily) out of luck, and John Watson resolves that the crow situation has gone on long enough.

“I’m bored.” The bird had been flitting between the lounge window, the back of the sofa, and the back of a kitchen chair since John got up the next morning. He was trying to concentrate on tea and the morning paper, but the bird kept up a constant round of complaints about boredom and the general injustice of his situation. 

“Christ, Sherlock. Settle down,” he said, looking up from a story about a military coup in Uganda. 

“I need a case, John. _We_ need a case.” 

“How can we work a case, Sherlock? I’m trying to earn a living, and you’re a bird. A bird with an attitude, I might add.” 

“I could pose as…” The rough little voice stopped. The bird’s head dipped. His glossy wings drooped. 

“As?” John asked gently. 

“Your _pet_ , John. I could pose as your pet bird, God help me. We could investigate. Please, John. I’m going mad with boredom. I need something to occupy my mind, or I’ll lose it.” 

John didn’t have the heart to ask what would happen if the Morrigan summoned Sherlock in the middle of a case. He figured he knew the answer to that, anyway. He didn’t have the heart to point out that if he lost his job at the surgery, they’d be out of luck on the tea and egg front. The bird just looked so damned discouraged. 

“So how do we get a case?” 

Sherlock lifted his head. The spark was back in his beady, black eyes. John smiled. 

“Call Lestrade. Tell him…” 

“Tell him that I’m assisting a talking bird he used to know as a consulting detective? Um, no.” 

“Anything in the papers? There must be a murder. A kidnapping? Anything, John.” 

“Cabinet reshuffle?” 

“Not unless it involved the ritual murder of a one of the Labor party. Try my website.” 

John walked into the lounge, Sherlock flapping behind him. John looked through Sherlock’s emails. 

“Well, here’s one.” Sherlock perched on his shoulder. 

“Oh, that,” the bird said. “I’ve already seen that one. ‘Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please, can you help?’” 

“Bluebell?” John was scanning the email. 

“A rabbit, John!” 

“Oh. Not exactly what you had in mind, then?” 

Sherlock pecked him on the side of the temple. 

“Ow! That hurt!” 

Just then, the doorbell rang. 

“Single ring. Maximum pressure. Client. John, it’s a client! Thank God. Go down. Quickly, John. Before Mrs. Hudson tells them I’m not here. I’ll stay in the kitchen. Tell them I’m indisposed. Get the facts, then make an excuse to come into the kitchen. Make them tea. I’ll tell you what needs to be done.” Sherlock’s excited croak was still echoing in John’s ear as he went down to greet the client. “The game, John! The game is on!” 

~~~~~ 

Alas, it was not to be. At first it went smoothly. John assured Henry Knight that he was Sherlock’s assistant and that he would take notes for the detective. After an exciting half-hour of listening to what was (as Sherlock hissed to John in one of his visits to the kitchen) Henry Knight’s “ludicrous” story of a demon dog in Dewar’s Hollow, something finally caught Sherlock’s interest. 

“Tell him we’ll take the case,” Sherlock said as John came in to put the used tea cups in the sink. 

“I thought you said it was boring,” John whispered. 

“Hound, John. He said gigantic _hound_. Pack a bag and tell him….” He broke off. Paused. Lifted his beak toward the ceiling. 

“No. NO. Not now. Bloody hell. NO.” He seemed to be listening to something. Then his head slumped. 

“Why now?” he muttered. Then he shook himself. “She’s calling me. I have to go.” No need, John thought, to ask who “she” was. 

“What about Henry Knight?” 

“He’s a dead man. There’s nothing I can do.” 

“What should I tell him?” 

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you like. Nothing matters.” His scratchy voice was flat. The bird opened his wings and flew out through the open window of the kitchen without looking back. 

~~~~~ 

When John came down the next morning, Sherlock had not returned to the flat. John tried not to worry, but one day passed, then another. Then another. He tried to concentrate in the surgery. He shopped and cooked. He got takeaway on the third night and tried to watch telly. He got up on the fourth morning. Still no sign of Sherlock. He got out eggs. He stood looking down at them for a long moment. His leg ached. His heart ached. How was it that he had gotten so attached to a bird? A brilliant, acerbic, cursed bird. 

“Where are you, Sherlock? Would anyone even know if you died?” He asked this of the sink, which didn’t answer. 

“Uncertain,” said a small, harsh voice behind him. “Would death lift the curse? Would I be a naked, unaccounted-for human corpse in Ukraine or Syria? Or just another dead bird?” 

John heaved a sigh of relief and turned. 

Sherlock was perched on the top of a kitchen chair. He looked terrible. His feathers were dusty and his eyes were dull. 

“Lots of death, John. I’ve seen a lot of death, but I’m....” he said, answering the question John hadn’t even managed to ask. He couldn’t seem to finish the thought. The bird’s head drooped. “Did you know the Celts called battlefields the garden of Badb? It sounds almost peaceful, doesn’t it?” 

John didn’t know what to say. “Tea?” 

“Please.” 

John slammed the kettle on the stove, then leaned against the counter. 

“Sod this,” he finally said. “Just sod this. You can’t go on like this, Sherlock. There must be a way out.” He turned around and looked at the bird. 

“You said you were cursed to do her bidding for two hundred bloody years. But I remember you said there was something else. Some other way.” 

“Irrelevant.” The bird was looking at the kitchen linoleum, not at him. 

“That’s what you said the first time. Why is it irrelevant? There has to be a way to break the curse.” 

The bird sighed its tiny sigh. “Two hundred years of service, or I love another person enough to sacrifice my life for theirs.” 

Bugger, thought John. Servitude or death. 

“She was furious when I refused her. She said something about not caring whether I loved _her,_ but that it was a terrible waste to pretend that I couldn’t love anyone or anything. I may have reminded her of something I said before.” 

“What was that?” 

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” 

“Do you really believe that?” John asked. 

“I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Sentiment is destructive to the logical faculties.” 

“So she was pissed?” 

“There was rather a lot of shouting on both sides. She said that the fact I came for her in Karachi meant I wasn’t a lost cause. I said it had nothing to do with sentiment, that I just didn’t want a brain like hers to be lopped off her shoulders by the Taliban. She said I didn’t have a clue about who I really was. She’s rather a passionate goddess, is the Morrigan. There was a lot more about passion and love and honour and potential and warrior tradition. I rather lost the thread. Then I said it.” 

“Said what?” 

“Caring is not an advantage.” 

“And?” 

“And I was as you see me now.” 

“Bloody hell.” 

“Indeed.” 

John turned back to the kettle, which was now spitting steam. 

“I’m making your tea, then I’m packing. We’re leaving in,” John looked at his watch, “forty minutes.” 

“I think it’s too late for Henry Knight, John. I’m sorry…” 

“We’ll deal with Henry when we get back.” 

“Then where are we going?” Sherlock asked. 

“Ireland. We’re going to see a goddess. I’m giving her a piece of my mind, one warrior to another, and we’re going to get this sorted.” 

“No, John. She’s dangerous.” 

“So am I, especially when someone I care about is threatened.” John looked absolutely grim as he stirred two sugars and a splash of milk into Sherlock’s tea and set it, none too gently, on the table. 

“Drink your tea,” he said, his voice soft and at odds with his fierce expression. “This has gone on long enough.” He turned smartly and left the kitchen. Sherlock listened to his steady tread on the stairs going up to his bedroom. 

John… cared for him. Isn’t that what he had just implied? He felt the stirrings of hope. And he felt something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had never been good with emotions. Maybe, just maybe, caring had some merit after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find themselves obliged to do a small favor for the ladies.

“It hurts to laugh.” 

“I fail to see the humour in our predicament.” 

John laughed again, bitterly. He couldn’t help it, but it made his head throb like a motherfucker. 

“I’m in a dungeon below an ancient manor house on a magical island in bloody Ireland. I was shot full of something by an old lady who has moves like nobody’s business. Our cunning plan hasn’t worked too well so far. Come on, Sherlock. You were as surprised as I was to see all three of them stark naked standing around that cauldron in the library. You have to laugh.” 

“I most certainly do not. You may have concussion, John. Hardly a laughing matter.” The crow narrowed its eyes. Sherlock did, indeed, look put out. 

“Concussion?” John probed his head. “Ow! Fucking hell.” 

“To be fair, I don’t think she intended to injure you. After she administered the sedative, or whatever it was, you fell. Your head made contact with one of the brass andirons by the fireplace. They dragged you down here. Irene let me stay to keep you awake. Possible concussion, as I said.” 

“So we’re in the shit.” 

“Colourful but accurate.” 

John’s eyelids drooped. He was tired. He was foggy. His head ached. He shifted into a relatively comfortable position against the damp stone wall. He would just close his eyes for a minute. 

He felt a vicious stab to his right hand. 

“Ow!” 

“Do. Not. Go. To. Sleep.” Sherlock’s beak came down again. Peck. Stab. Peck. Stab. 

John jerked his hand away and tucked it under the opposite arm for protection. “Stop it, Sherlock. I just need to rest a minute.” 

A flutter of wings. The crow settled on his shoulder and pecked his forehead. 

John’s eyes flew open and confronted the sleek black head swiveled out two inches from his left eye. He tried to shift back, but he was already against solid stone. 

“Don’t make me do it again,” Sherlock hissed. “You are a doctor, John. You know the dangers of falling asleep in your condition.” 

“All _right_.” John sat up straighter. “Jesus. Point taken. Sherlock, nobody knows where we are. How are we going to get out of this? You’re the brains of this operation. My attempt at intimidation didn’t go over too well.” 

“They still like you, for some unaccountable reason. Nemain stood over you while you were unconscious and made a speach about passion and honour, and the Badb agreed you had the blood of a true warrior… blah, blah. Anyway, I gathered that the upshot was they decided not to kill us both.” 

“So, good news then?” The slight question at the end of John’s comment arose from the fact that Sherlock didn’t sound as happy about their continued existence as might be expected. 

“Depends.” 

“On what, exactly?” 

“On how we do on the quest.” 

John closed his eyes again and sighed. 

“The quest. People don’t go on quests nowadays. Sherlock?” He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. It sounded like something ancient and … long. Weren’t quests usually long? With monsters and things? 

“Apparently you have joined me in hell, John. Here we apparently go on quests. I’m… John, I’m sorry I involved you in any of this. Truly.” 

John smiled and opened his eyes. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Look at me. I’m not sorry, actually. Better than being bored and eating my gun.” He rattled his chains. “I’m not bored. So, what’s this quest then?” 

“Recovering a stolen necklace.” 

“OK. That sounds surprisingly… straightforward.” 

There was a lengthy silence. The bird refused to meet his eyes. Then it spoke. 

“Mordred stole the necklace before the Battle of Camlann.” 

“Mordred. Like King Arthur’s Mordred?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sherlock replied. 

“Thought he died in the battle.” 

“Irene says the necklace protected him. The legends are wrong. Arthur died. Mordred survived.” 

“Bloody hell. Um, right. So what does the necklace have to do with anything? With the crazy ladies upstairs?” 

Sherlock sighed. “You know of Morgan le Fay?” 

“Sure. Bad news. Enemy of Arthur. Legendary bad girl.” 

“Irene. And she insisted she was never Arthur’s enemy. The sisters were on Arthur’s side. Nemain wasn’t always the bloodthirsty bitch she…” 

“Shush,” said John. “They might be listening.” 

“Nemain was in love with one of Arthur’s knights. Pelleas. She gave him an enchanted necklace that protected anyone who wore it. ‘No battle was ever sustained against it, or against the man who held it,’ according to Irene. Mordred betrayed Pelleas and stole the necklace. Pelleas died at Camlann with Arthur. Nemain went mad with grief and became… what she is. Irene wants it back. Then we’re free, and she agreed to end the enchantment as well.” 

“Simple then,” said John. “So where’s the necklace now?” 

“They don’t know.” 

“Wonderful. So we’re on a quest for a legendary necklace that could be anywhere in the god-forsaken world.” 

Silence. 

“When do we start?” John clinked his chains together. 

“So you are willing to do this?” 

“Do we have a choice?” 

“I have not been able to think of a viable alternative. Ordinarily I would count on my brother to find me, loathe as I am to admit it. Since he doesn’t know I’m alive, however, that avenue isn’t promising.” 

“Right. Any clue about where to start?” 

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “Irene doesn’t know where the necklace is, but she thinks she knows who might have it. Mordred has one descendant that they have been able to trace. Apparently a chip off the old block.” 

“And who might that be?” 

“His name is James Moriarty, and his base of operations is in Dublin.” 

“Base of operations?” 

“Apparently Mr. Moriarty is the head of a considerable criminal network.” 

“Wonderful,” said John.


End file.
